Near-Sighted
by SevenServers
Summary: In which America is absolutely adamant that he doesn't need glasses. England, meanwhile, is trying to get him to stop running into walls and tripping over himself, all the while wondering why someone who looks that lovely would be so self-conscious. Kink Meme De-Anon.


This has been considerably cleaned up after first posting on the kink meme (which, admittedly, wasn't all that long ago, and I don't think I gave most of you even a chance to see this before de-anoning it), but I have a feeling it's probably good to get the editing done as best as I can and post it to the general public.

* * *

When America first stepped off the plane, England practically felt his heart stop. His uniform was crisp and clean, and not even the less-than-fitted parts could quite hide his war-time build. And, England had to admit, his 'war-time build' was especially impressive, even compared to most other nations. Because although he could hardly see the abdominal muscles that he knew would be there—and no doubt looked fantastic—he _could_ see how tight the uniform was around his upper arms, and he could rightly assume that America's lower build would look equally impressive.

Still, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was off about the other nation's appearance. At first, England dismissed it as hesitance about entering the world's stage as a new power, but as America was showing his usual exuberance and over-enthusiasm—bar some stiffness in the way he carried himself, but that was only to be expected—he decided that that wasn't the case.

No, it was definitely something about his appearance, something different, but… familiar. Granted, he had quite a difficult time figuring out what, exactly, it was, since they hadn't seen eachother frequently since before the Revolution, but he could have sworn he'd seen something different about him on their visit a little before his Civil War.

Before England could figure out what it was, though, America spotted him (after what felt like ages of just standing there, and England faintly wondered why it had taken him so long to find him) and came bounding over, not unlike a large puppy.

"Hey! England!" America said, grinning brightly. "Fancy meeting you here, huh?"

The phrase 'Belt up, you git,' was on the tip of England's tongue, but as he didn't want to insult the nation right after he'd gotten off of the boat (and no doubt was it a long, long journey), he saved the harsh words for later. And, obviously if America was going to act as overenthusiastic during the meetings as he was right then, he'd need those insults in great quantity very soon. Instead, he settled for a rather formal, "We're in public, _Alfred_," he took great care to point out, as few other than their bosses knew the truth about them. "I'd prefer it if you greeted me properly." And he held out a hand.

America, being America, bypassed the handshake and went straight for a hug. "This better?" he asked with an unnecessarily loud laugh.

"Not in the least," England growled, but returned the hug nonetheless. "At any rate, it's… good to see you. About time you showed up to the war, eh, America?"

"Eh, figured I might as well give you Europeans a chance to end the war on your own before I did anything." America shrugged. He glanced around, seemingly for the exit, and England impatiently grabbed his arm and led him in the general direction of the carraiges. "Plus, not sure if you've noticed, but I was kind of an isolationist, so it was actually pretty arrogant of you to assume I'd drop everything for you guys the second you wanted assistance."

"My, did you just use a polysyllabic word?" England asked, mock surprised. "'Isolationist'? 'Arrogant'? 'Assistance'? Who are you and what have you done with America?"

"Yeah, yeah," America waved him off. "I woulda used more, but I figure I might as well stop giving people the impression that I was, uh, bookish." For a split second, he looked almost offended at what he'd just said, but covered it up quickly and efficiently.

"Who would think _you're_ bookish?" England raised an eyebrow at the other's expression.

"Well. Uh, anyways, any idea where I'll be staying?" America asked, and England decided to overlook that he'd changed the subject.

"At my place, same room as usual. I daresay it's the same bloody mess you left it last time," the Empire said, only half resentful.

"Well, I had to leave in a hurry, didn't I?" America frowned. "There was an emergency back home. Obviously I didn't have enough time to clean up!"

"You could have at least packed all your clothes back into your suitcase," England said with more than a little amusement. "Nevertheless, I'm not known to hold grudges, so I'm perfectly fine with you staying there with me, so long as you don't mess it up again."

"Does blood count? 'Cause I hate to admit it, but we're probably going to get pretty messed up whenever we have to fi—ugh!" It was perhaps just bad luck that right then, America tripped over what seemed to be his own two feet—or perhaps that odd tile—and nearly pulled England down with him, as he'd quickly grabbed hold of the other's jacket.

"What on earth—" England sputtered, but fortunately managed to save both himself and America from falling, and carefully righted himself as America did the same.

"Uh, sorry," America said sheepishly. "I just… tripped."

"Most people don't bring others down with them," England grumbled, but it was clear that he'd forgiven him and all was well. They continued with their walk moments later, when America wasn't warily eyeing the ground, as if something was going to jump out at him.

Unfortunately, it was rather hard to _forget_ America's clumsiness, as a few minutes later found them in much the same situation, though this time found America's chin hitting the pavement.

"Good lord!" England said with a rather bewildered expression. "Are you all right?"

By then, America had already picked himself up and brushed the dust off his clothes, absently rubbing at his chin, looking mildly relieved to find that there wasn't any blood. "Heh. Uh." He nervously rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, 'm good. Just tripped."

England gave him a wary glance and looked about to say something, but by then their carriage had arrived, and suddenly it was much more important to pay the driver than to fuss over his former colony or ask any hard questions.

* * *

"Wow, your place looks fantastic!" America said with a grin. "Seriously, did you do something with the, uh," he glanced around, suddenly flustered. "With the… carpet?"

"No," England practically growled. "Unlike you, not all of us have the time or money to change out the carpet every ten years. Why on earth would you think I'd have done something with that of all things? It's the exact same as when you were here last!"

"Oh. Um." America bit his lip. "Well. Uh, anyways, your house looks awesome and I'll just go upstairs right now if that's okay!" He said hurriedly, and rushed out of the room at much the same pace.

England watched him, raising an eyebrow as America more stumbled than walked up the stairs. He assumed it was from the speed he was going and his haste to get there, and promptly turned back into the kitchen to make some tea. After all, he had a guest. It was only proper (even if it was spiteful tea, made solely to make America squirm in a mixture of forced-politeness, squeamishness about being treated like a 'colony' again at having to drink tea, distaste of the tea itself, and nervousness of all the memories it represented).

America stayed up in 'his' room (as few others were invited over, most of his frequent guests ended up having rooms of their own, with Japan having a rather charming Japanese-styled room and France having a very much …_French_ one, and America was no exception, with his stash of comics and red-white-and blue theme in his own) for the next few hours. England would have been worried, but America came down without a hassle when a servant announced it was time for dinner.

Fortunately, the servant had _made_ dinner, too, as neither America or England could be expected to cook without destroying the kitchen (because while America could normally make something simple by himself, most ingredients were called something else in Britain so he usually ended up putting the wrong thing into recipes, and England… was _England_, and he couldn't be expected to cook, either).

When both nations were seated at the table, attempts at conversation were attempted once more.

"So, ah, America," England said as pleasantly as he could. "I didn't ask before. How was your trip, save for long and tiresome?"

"Not all that bad," America said around a large bite of beef. "Sorta bumpy, though. I couldn't really sleep most the time, either."

"Did you manage to catch some sleep upstairs, then?" England asked when he was finished with his own bit of meat. He assumed that 'bumpy' meant that America had no doubt been seasick most of the time. "I doubt sleeping mid-day was too great of a choice. I think that you might have been wiser to wait, since you'll probably have a _splendid_ time trying to get to sleep tonight."

"Uh," the superpower faltered a moment at being addressed as if England was still some sort of parental figure. "Oops?"

England seemed to notice the parental advice and his cheeks turned a bit pink, but to avoid any sort of confrontation, he just scoffed and tucked into his own meal with much the same vigor as America had. It was several minutes before the silence lifted again.

"So. How're things here? Are people making doing okay with the war effort and all?" America asked after he'd finished his food.

"Yes, we're having quite a time of getting more people." England frowned. "This trench warfare business is… rather disheartening. I'll be happy when it's all over."

"Can't say I have much of an opinion since I just got off the boat this morning," America said with a shrug. "I'm just glad I get to come over now."

"Hmph," England grunted, "Well, not to any help of you people. That isolationist policy is really quite troublesome," He paused, glancing seriously at the superpower across from him. "However, I do appreciate that you're here now, at least."

"Ah, anything to help an ally." America smiled contentedly, leaning back.

They would have fallen into silence again, but recognition suddenly dawned on England, and he sat forward, frowning a bit. "Say, I thought you looked different earlier…" he paused, narrowing his eyes. "Didn't you used to wear glasses?"

America colored immediately. "Er, well, sort of, but I didn't really need them!" he insisted, but he was fidgeting and his index fingers were tapping nervously, so England obviously didn't feel inclined to believe him. "Honestly! They were… uh, just a symbol of one of my states… Texas! Yeah, Texas! Really! So I had to have them with me and… and… um, I still have them with me, but I didn't want to put them on, since I heard the UK has a policy against guys in uniform having 'bad vision' _which I don't_ so I basically I didn't want anyone to think anything of it."

England hummed, pretending to be truly considering America's words (as if he really could believe him when he was _that_ twitchy, honestly). "Yes, well. Doesn't your own country have a policy against military men having impaired vision?"

"Um." America paused. "W…Well, yeah. That's why I didn't want to wear them here, 'cause my own people were trying to get all huffy with me. So I just don't want to waste their time and mine trying to prove that I don't _need_ glasses and that they're just, uh, important to me, is all."

"So you don't need glasses," England surmised, marginally raising a brow. "Alrighty, then. Say, how's the weather been at your place? That avalanche finally cleared up*?"

England pretended not to notice how relieved America looked when he changed the topic.

* * *

As they were both there to participate in the war, America and England had military training, with America having to take a Physical Examination and a few Preliminary Fitness Tests to see if he was properly strong enough to handle the work-outs that the Army would put them through. And while England had to admit that he was… perhaps a bit too happy to see America work out—because he'd been right, his body was _impressive_—he remained unconvinced that America's vision was really up to snuff, especially as he remembered the few instances the day before where America had tripped and fell out of nowhere, and how he'd practically crashed his way up the stairs.

Still, he had to give him a chance.

America, understandably, did quite well on the upper-body-strength tests. Being a superpower, he had more strength than a human (though technically he was a nation…) body was probably supposed to have, and did over two hundred more pushups and at least a hundred more pull-ups than he was required (much to the envy of his evaluator). Even England, who'd seen him swing around a buffalo as a child, was rather impressed, especially as he knew America probably could have done a full thousand, if he'd really been trying.

His ability to do sit-ups was also rather impressive, though not quite as impressive as his upper-body strength tests. He had to have gotten those abdominal muscles for something, after all (and England had to keep himself from staring at the way the sweat made his shirt stick to those abs, giving him a clear look at what lay under the fabric—).

He continued through the rest of his exams, all with far-above-average results in every category…

Save for the tests that involved running long distances.

This, however, wasn't due to not being fit enough (as America was clearly able to handle the endurance part, since he wasn't even breathing hard by the end of the run), but due to the fact that he kept tripping during the run.

England, of course, had been somewhat concerned after a few particularly nasty falls (one of which he could have sworn America twisted his ankle on, but it had been fortunately a false alarm, since he'd easily picked himself back up and gotten back on the track). However, he quickly attested that to the conversation he'd had with the superpower the previous evening, and the nervous way he'd denied having less-than-perfect vision.

But as America would have quickly and easily been kicked out of the army for having such terrible vision—because he'd tripped over a rock that was at _least_ the size of his head at one point, and it should have been bloody impossible to trip over something that big, unless America really was half blind—England wisely decided to stay quiet.

Still, that didn't mean he wasn't allowed to be concerned. And, of course, whenever England was concerned, he tended to voice his concerns shortly afterwards.

The inevitable fallout (well, hardly a _fallout_; more like a passive-aggressive, stubborn, adamant 'talk') happened when the pair got home (after a short pit-stop to get a bite to eat before they got home, as America had whined about being hungry). America practically collapsed on the sofa after being run around and working out for almost the whole day (and he'd had a right to be tired, since after the evaluator had had enough of him acing things, just started asking America to do as many sit-ups/pushups/sprints/jumps/etc as he _possibly_ _could_, leaving America completely exhausted).

"So, America," England said, conversationally with perhaps just a twinge of morbid curiosity. "I have to say that I was… rather impressed, all in all."

"Yeah, well," America said with a tired grin. "It was actually pretty fun. The evaluator guy was _killer_ though. I swear he had it in for me, making me work out like that."

England hummed in agreement before carefully sitting next to America on the couch, minding the limbs that seemed to be splayed every which way. "I dare say you did at least a thousand push-ups by the end of the day, and almost as many sit-ups. And the miles he made you run…"

"Eh, those weren't quite as fun," America grumbled.

"Yes, you seemed to be tripping over yourself quite a lot," England said cryptically. "I must admit, I'm… rather curious about why that was."

"Ugh, not now," America said, fortunately keeping his tone more dignified than whines or mumbles, though half of him was tempted to just give up and whine until England took the hint and let him go upstairs and sleep.

"What?" England asked innocently. "Can't I be curious?"

"You _could_ be curious if you weren't so dead-set on linking 'facts' together to see if I'm, like, guilty or whatever." America yawned part-way through his sentence. "Mm. Anyways. There something you really need right now? Otherwise I think I'm gonna hit it…"

"You should probably take a hot bath before bed," England pointed out. "You worked hard to day, and I'm willing to bet half my estate that you're going to be sore tomorrow if you don't at least stretch out and take a nice, relaxing soak to loosen up."

"Don't really want to," America said with another yawn. "I'm beat."

Half of England's mouth twitched downwards, as if he was having a difficult time containing a frown. "Really. Well, how about this, then," he said quietly, then leaned forward, and started to knead his fingers into the tense skin. "Since I don't want to have to hear you moan about how sore you are, just let me do this really quickly, then you can get off to bed."

And America couldn't really find anything wrong with that statement, as logically it made sense… Though he was hardly thinking with his mind, and more-so with his body as England's hands felt _unbelievably_ good against his already stiffening muscles. He closed his eyes, and it was a few moments until he managed to find the energy to say, "That's fine."

England hid a smirk (though America could hardly see with his eyes closed). When he was properly convinced that America was fully relaxed, he leaned down towards the other nation's ear. "Say, America… Why _were_ you tripping earlier? It couldn't be because you were tired. I doubt you were even panting by the end of that five-mile run. So, what was it?"

"Hm?" America hummed. "Whaddya mean…?"

"Well I'm simply curious. I won't hold anything you say against you, you know," England said, reassuring. He carefully massaged a particularly tense part of America's shoulders, wincing at the hiss that came from the superpower. "You can tell me anything…"

"Mm," America hummed again. "Dunno. I… ugh… right _there_," America groaned as England got to his upper arms, which were inevitably sore, as they'd practically been shaking by the time the evaluator said he could stop.

England sighed and continued. He had a feeling it'd take a bit for America to be fully ready. "Go on."

"Huuuuh…" the superpower sighed, happy as could be. "Hmn. You askin' about why I wear glasses again?" America asked, sounding like he'd be suspicious if he had the energy to be.

"Partially. I was asking why you were tripping over yourself during the five-mile test." England carefully massaged the sore muscles in the other's forearms before going back up to the upper arm, rightfully deciding that they needed more care.

"Oh, that." America gave a low hum of approval at the care given to his arms. "Prolly 'cause I couldn'… really… see the track, 'n all."

England smiled at him, bemused at the sudden change in accent. It seemed like America's southern drawl was starting to slip through. "Hm… and why would that be?"

"'Cause I can' see too good, 'n… 'n I couldn' wear my glasses…"

England sighed, smoothing away the hair from the other's sweaty forehead. "And why didn't you wear your glasses, America?"

"Don' really wanna tell you that," America yawned, slumping forward a bit. "'S… kinda embarrassing…"

"And what could be so embarrassing that it would force you not to wear the only thing that would _help_ your vision?" England asked, raising an eyebrow. When America didn't reply immediately, he slipped his hands under the other's shirt, tending to the sore abdominal muscles—that, to be fair, he'd wanted to run his hands over all day—and finding that they were alarmingly tense. England worked diligently at correcting that, America blushing feverishly the whole time.

"Hey…" America finally started to protest when England's hands slipped below his belly button. "Don't… touch there. Please."

England didn't go against his wishes, even though he was fairly certain the other wouldn't quite appreciate his self-control the next morning, when that area would be sore and stiff.

A few minutes passed, all in silence (save for occasional hisses or sleepy mumbles of approval whenever England hit a particularly sore or sensitive spot).

Finally, England tried again. "I won't laugh, you know. I just want to know what happened," he whispered gently. "It's… gotten you rather worked up. You seemed positively frantic yesterday, when I asked why you weren't wearing your glasses."

"Well…" America finally mumbled. "Guess it wouldn't hurt. Y'already know I have horrible vision anyways." He shrugged. "Ngh. Sorta 'cause of… one of my gen'rals…" He trailed off, previous shyness resurfacing. England rubbed at his calves as a sort of silent encouragement until America continued. "Mm. You wouldn't know him, I don't think. He's Pershing. You know, the General?"

"Is he one of the ones that constantly insults your… '_Negroes'_ as you so eloquently call them?" England raised an eyebrow when America shrugged. "Well. I'd hardly say he'd have been worth the fuss, then, if he'd treat some of your own that poorly, and you may want to keep that in mind."

America actually looked a bit upset at that. "He's a pretty good guy, though, and I'm pretty sure he's gonna have, like, eighty-something medals on him by the end of this war," he moaned, practically burying himself in self-pity. "And I don't have _cause_ to dislike him! He just…" He trailed off, somewhat helplessly. "I dunno."

"If he's as good a man as you say," England said cautiously, "Then I doubt he'd be so callous towards you. How else could he have been a General, if he mistreated his subordinates?"

"Well, he's still a General, 'n I'm still under him, technically, and so when he said I couldn't wear glasses…" America shrugged helplessly. "What was I supposed to do? He said something 'bout being embarrassed about his 'fine countrymen' being represented by some… some…" America's voice suddenly got quieter. "'Some fool who can't see five feet in front of him without the aid of spectacles.'"

England sighed, cautiously pulling the other closer to him, until they were in some semblance of a hug, however awkward (as England had since moved his hands back under America's shirt). "I don't quite know what to say about someone like that…"

"Hngh," America grunted. "As if your country doesn't have the same policy."

"America," England said warningly. "I'm not my country." America just shot him an incredulous look, but England cut him off before he could say anything. "No. Listen," he said, gentler. "What I do and what my country does are two different things. For one, you remember how I was a pirate, yes?" he asked, and when America nodded, albeit hesitant, England continued, "Good. Well, in my country, pirates were almost always hung when caught. Imagine the scandal for my dear Queen if someone found out she was not only allowing me to be a pirate, but covering for me? You see the problem, yes?" He paused, apparently lost in nostalgia for just a moment. "At… at any rate, you see that what I was doing may not have gone against the Queen, but it did go against most of the people I represented. And furthermore," he looked America straight in the eye, "You are yourself, too, and not just your country simply because you _do_ wear glasses, you see? You're entitled to being you and not just your country sometimes."

America gave an odd little half-frown and cautiously looked away. "Yeah, but I'm still not allowed to wear glasses, and it's only _because_ I'm a country that I manage to get away with having such bad eyesight. And they only let that slide so much mainly 'cause I agree to not wearing glasses so there's no evidence that I can't see ten feet in front of me."

England raised an eyebrow. "Your sight's really that bad?"

"Pretty much," America said glumly.

"Hm." It was a tense few moments, with England absently tracing a pattern over America's abdomen (as he figured that over an hour of massaging was more than enough to take away most of the soreness).

Truth be told, England was perhaps just a little put off about America's poor vision. Though, unlike his countrymen, it wasn't really out of a thought that 'poor sight' equaled 'weakness' (though that in itself was partially because America was many things, but certainly not weak if he could do over a thousand push-ups). No, England's dislike of America's vision problem had more to do with America being in danger while in combat. After all, if he couldn't see very well, any time when his glasses fell off would put him in quite a bit of danger, if he couldn't see the ground in front of him well enough to get away without tripping. And even if his glasses stayed on in the midst of combat (unlikely without something to hold them in-place) they were still prone to getting smudged or dirty to as to impair his already limited field of vision.

Still, he could hardly discourage America from being a part of the military, as he'd already gotten in, poor vision or no. So there was hardly any point of holding any sort of grudge against him for something he couldn't control, anyhow.

Plus, England wouldn't admit it, but he really preferred America's smiles. A glum America was surely a sign of something dreadful, and even aside from that, England loved him too much to let him be unhappy if he had any sort of say over the other's emotions. Unfortunately, he hadn't yet found the courage to tell the other any of that.

However, more than anything else, England was sure that a good talking-to was what America needed most right then.

With a sigh, England turned back to America, looking him in the eye. "I know we've hardly been the closest of allies," he said cautiously, "But I daresay you're… giving this a bit too much thought."

"Aren't you always saying I don't think enough?" America said, almost sulkily.

"You already know that sabotaging me when I want to say something important won't work," England said firmly. America sulked further but let him continue without fuss. "At any rate, I think you're worth five men on the battlefield with your strength alone, perfect vision or no. And any commander worth anything should see that." He paused. "Given that you're also unable to actually die, you're worth at least a thousand. So even from a tactician's point of view, you're invaluable. So the General you were getting so worked up over shouldn't matter to you, as his opinions are hardly worth anything if he can't even see how much you're worth."

America gave a soft 'hmph' and didn't reply further, but England knew he was still listening.

"And… as I said before, you and I are hardly all that great of allies…" he paused, forcing himself to breathe a bit deeper. "But having you here with me means a lot to me. And I don't plan on letting anyone else—especially not a human—steal so much of your attention when I want you focused on me." England took another deep breath, face burning crimson. "And… not just as an ally. Not just as a friend, either."

America blinked at him. "You… You mean…?"

"I'm… saying right now that I would very much like you to be mine, and for me to be yours," England said quickly, then said even faster, "That is, if you'll have me, I mean. I'm not so arrogant as to assume that you'd want me like that, not when there are other, better, options, but I at least think that you should… should give this some thought, at the very least, because you really do mean a lot to me—"

A hand over his mouth was what shut England up, and he stared, bewildered, at America, who just smiled sheepishly. "That… sounds pretty great, England."

England smiled wider than he had in what felt like years. "I…" But he decided that words really didn't describe how grateful—happy—he was, and instead leaned forward for a kiss—

Only to have America block him. England looked up, slightly cross with the other—had he just been stringing him along those last few minutes?—before America had suddenly reached into a pocket on his shorts and pulled out a familiar pair of glasses, sliding them on with a grin.

"Before we kiss and, um, seal the deal, so to speak," America said quietly, almost shyly, "I want to be able to see you, is all." And he stared at England for a moment, up and down—to which England colored a bit more, averting his eyes and wondering if America would really find him all that appealing now that he could actually see—before smiling wider, if possible. "You're… absolutely fantastic. An' I'm glad I got to hear all that first, otherwise…" he trailed off a moment. "…I might've gotten distracted at why someone as amazing as you would want me."

England raised his eyebrows just slightly, smiling softly. "Love, if anyone's amazing here, it's you. And if anyone else can't see that…" he leaned in, lips mere inches from America's, "Then they're the ones who are near-sighted."

It was the first kiss of many.

* * *

It was yet another military meeting and America had panicked last-minute, saying that he couldn't deal with wearing his glasses since The General (and England had since learned that America really did capitalize the 'T' and 'G' in his head) was going to be there, and he couldn't deal with him looking so ashamed of him.

Of course, America hadn't really _said_ that, but his frantic rushing around when he heard Pershing was going to be there had led to him taking off his glasses and stashing them in his front pocket.

England could only assume that he was partially nervous because he'd started showing up for training with his glasses on (fastened at the back with elastic, so they wouldn't fall off during runs) and obviously the Sergeants overseeing him had made note of it. They could only assume it had gotten back to Pershing, hence the extra panic.

Still, England found it somewhat hard to sympathize with America, since he'd blatantly ignored all of his attempts to get him to loosen up, and that it wasn't the end of the world to have to meet up with the General and get lectured, and even added that he, England, was going to be there, too, and he was going to keep it from getting out of hand.

However, it was much easier to sympathize with America after the nation had managed to run straight into a wall (a consequence of running around in literally blind panic), which had given him a rather nasty bloody nose and a rather nice bump on his head.

Somewhere along the line, England figured that it probably wouldn't be the smartest thing in the world for America, bruised and still-bleeding, to show up with his glasses on, too, at a meeting with someone who absolutely hated any form of weakness. So with a rather grudging silence, he slipped the glasses off of America's face (having previously been given back to him so he wouldn't smack into another wall and make his nose _worse_) and into his own coat pocket.

America glanced at him, slightly worried, but didn't manage to protest, because right at that moment, Pershing bumped into them, causing America to crash to the ground, having not been able to quite find the wall next to him or even been able to feel for it, as his hands had been occupied in keeping his nose from bleeding everywhere and holding the ice-pack to his head. England fell with him, also having been occupied, though with helping America not trip and fall while he wasn't wearing his glasses, but that hardly did any good when they crashed.

Pershing glanced at them with a frown, apparently not recognizing his own nation underneath the ice-pack and tissues. At that point, he just mumbled something about 'klutzes' before going on his way, not even bothering to help them stand back up.

America was understandably put-out by the blatant rejection of his General, but cheered up a little when England fixed him with a questioning look before distractedly saying something about being not minding being late to the meeting.

However, they never did get to the meeting, and America was perfectly content with allowing England to take him into the restroom, fuss over his (minor) injuries before properly snogging him until it they had fully missed it.

It was the little things that made it all worthwhile, really.

* * *

Note: Many conversations have been changed. You could go to the original fill for the messy, inaccurate version, but I prefer this one, how about you?

*The avalanche England is referring to is the Wellington, Washington avalanche of 1910. 96 people died in it. And add that to the 1888 Blizzard (400 deaths), 1950 Blizzard (353), and the 1913 Blizzard (250), and you wonder why America hates winter so much?


End file.
